


Brock Tells a Scary Story

by quillingyousoftly



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Relationship, Everyone is STRIKE, Halloween, M/M, Party, Russian Roulette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-31
Updated: 2020-10-31
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:35:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27310558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quillingyousoftly/pseuds/quillingyousoftly
Summary: "This story starts like all these kinds of stories do," Brock begins darkly. "With bad intel."
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 6
Kudos: 21





	Brock Tells a Scary Story

**Author's Note:**

> I've headcannoned this to be Brock's worst memory for a long time, and Halloween seemed like a good opportunity to write it.

The house party’s winding down, everyone tired of dancing and loud music and sitting down at the table to just talk and have a few more snacks and drinks when the lights suddenly go out. If it wasn't for the eerie, soft blue light of the glow sticks in their drinks and the tray of glowing Jell-O shots on the table, it would've been pitch black. It surprises everyone, and when the conversation momentarily ceases, they realize the music stopped playing, too. Brock is about to suggest it's a power outage when they hear a click, and Clint's face appears in the middle of the living room, illuminated from the bottom by the flashlight he's holding.

"Scary stories time!" he singsongs to the mixture of groans and relieved laughs from his friends, and passes the flashlight to the closest person to him, which is Natasha sitting at the very center of the table with her back to the open space of the room.

"Oh no, I told one the last time." 

"It was _a year ago!_ " Clint throws his arms up in the air in the most dramatic way possible. 

Nat simply shrugs and passes the flashlight to Steve sitting by her right. He takes it with a dose of surprise and holds it beneath his face, so for thirty seconds or more they can admire his square jaw as he chews on a large bite of a pizza bagel he's just taken.

"Uh..." he says, his mouth still full as he furrows his brow in deep thought.

"Oh my God." Clint covers his face with his hands for a moment, then yanks the flashlight from Steve's loose grip and presses it against Brock's chest. Brock grabs it before it falls to the floor, or worse, his lap; it's big, and metal, and heavy as hell.

"Uh," he repeats unintentionally, but recovers much faster than Steve. "I have enough of scary stories to last me a lifetime."

"Well?" Clint looks at him eagerly.

Brock scans the rest of the faces surrounding the table, pale and ghastly in the faint light of the glow sticks. Natasha isn't looking at him and sipping on her Margarita instead. Steve is stuffing another bagel into his mouth, pure interest on his face. Jack's sprawled on the other side of the small loveseat they're both sitting on, looking way too comfortable on a pile of throw pillows. He's, as usual, stone-faced, but he nods slightly in encouragement. He already knows which story Brock will tell if he decides to, and he's seemingly saying, _I've got your back_ without as much as parting his lips.

Brock sighs, throws back the dregs of his gin and tonic, and slams the glass on the table. "Alright."

Clint cheers and drops into the empty armchair on the other side of the table, his face disappearing in shadows. Steve smiles favorably. Nat pretends to inspect the salt on the rim of her glass, but Brock notices her watching him out of the corner of her eye. 

"This story starts like all these kinds of stories do," Brock begins darkly. "With bad intel."

*

Something wet hitting his face wakes him up. His eyes sting when he opens them, but he remains calm as one whiff confirms it was cheap vodka and not piss.

It's dark where he is, and he senses presence all around him. He's lying crumpled on a concrete floor, his legs cramped underneath his aching body. He can see a pair of bare legs in his peripheral, and he realizes his are bare, too. His underwear and t-shirt are still in place, but a chill runs down his spine when he realizes that's all he has on him. His body armor and weapons are gone.

"Up," he hears behind his back in a foreign accent, but before he can get his hands under himself, he's pulled up to a sitting position by the back of his tee to the accompaniment of tearing fabric.

He blinks the stinging away and looks around. He's sitting in a circle with his entire team—he counts their heads quickly just to be sure—five men, six including him. Standard tact team. Memories of the mission flow back, how he ordered a retreat after realizing they were outnumbered, then there was a grenade and darkness.

His relief at the sight of all his team alive is temporary though, as there are men standing behind their backs, big, well-equipped, and aiming AKMs at their backs. His men are all in the same predicament as he is, stripped down to their t-shirts, and a little banged up. The rookie, Murphy, is sitting on his left, a bump on his forehead showing where he was hit to knock him out. Barnes's sitting next to him, glaring at a fixed point, a trail of dried blood running down his face from a shallow cut on his temple. On his left is Kaminsky, who's looking at Brock expectantly, like he thinks they can somehow take all of these guys down. Ward's eyes are following the men moving around them. Jack's sitting by Brock's right, looking a lot like Barnes with his angry frown, but he's even more beat up, his face bruised and covered in caked blood. He must have put up quite a fight; he's never known when to surrender.

"Since they are all in complement now," says a gruff voice behind his back, and this time Brock recognizes the accent as Slavic. 

He hears what is unmistakably the sound of a revolver's cylinder being spun. The eyes of the Slavs surrounding them light up, their lips break into smiles, and Brock's body goes rigid on its own. Footsteps sound behind him, soft and deliberate, but they circle him, and a man enters his peripheral. He's an average height, but he radiates the air of authority. Just like Brock expected, he's holding a revolver in his big, scarred hand, which he passes to Murphy. Murphy stares back in shock at being offered a weapon, then shoots Brock a questioning glance. The man—the leader, it seems—laughs heartily.

"Never played Russian Roulette, little boy?" He takes Murphy's slender hand into his paw and aims the revolver at his head. Murphy shuts his eyes closed with his breath held. "You position gun just so. And you pull the trigger." 

Murphy jerks when the leader pulls the trigger, but the revolver doesn't shoot. Brock breathes out in relief and holds his next one. It's far from over yet. The leader laughs again, and Murphy opens his eyes that shine with unshed tears. He blinks in surprise at being still alive.

"That's how you play," the leader says merrily, forcing Murphy's shaking hand to pass the revolver to Barnes.

*

"It was simple: either we play and buy time for a rescue team to find and save us," Brock says gravely, "or we're all immediately executed. Well, the rules were simple, the choice wasn't. Do I subject my subordinates who trust and rely on me to this torture in hopes it'll save some of them, or do I decide for us all to die in peace?"

He looks around the table. Natasha is no longer feigning disinterest, but watching him intently. Steve's staring at him with a bagel frozen halfway to his mouth. Jack's sitting closer now, though still relaxed with his arm braced against the backrest behind Brock. Only Clint remains hidden in the shadows.

"As you can guess from us still being fucking here," Brock continues, "I chose torture."

*

Barnes looks like he's already played this game before when he swiftly presses the muzzle against his head, pulls the trigger, and passes the revolver to Kaminsky, all with his glare unwavering. He doesn't even give Brock enough time to release his breath. The leader laughs, claps his hands once in joy, and says something to his men in a foreign language, likely a praise.

Kaminsky stares at the revolver like he expects it to discharge on its own, which considering his infamous bad luck, isn’t entirely unreasonable. Brock's hands fold into fists, and he only realizes when they begin to ache. But he can't force himself to relax them, too preoccupied with watching Kaminsky. His mind is repeating the probability of it firing like a broken record, _twenty-five percent, twenty-five—_

Kaminsky locks his eyes with him as he raises his shaking hand. His chest heaves with panicked breaths. He looks around his teammates' faces, then closes his eyes and pulls the trigger. The gun doesn't fire.

Brock sucks in a shaky breath when his chest begins to hurt from the lack of air. Ward takes the revolver next and looks it over like he tries to determine his chances of survival. Brock's nails break the skin of his palms. He knows what the chances are: thirty-three percent, and by the time the revolver makes it to Jack, they jump to fifty percent.

Brock's body is tense and still, the only part of it moving his rapidly beating heart. His taut muscles are aching, his unblinking eyes stinging, unbreathing lungs burning. He doesn't want to watch when Jack puts the muzzle to his head, but he can't look away. Jack meets his gaze with a cool respect in his own, and there's a subtle nod of his head like he's saying goodbye. He looks like he's about to say, _It was an honor,_ but he doesn't make a sound, and then averts his eyes before pulling the trigger.

Nothing happens.

Brock stares at the revolver in Jack's big hand that has just become his death sentence, expecting relief that never comes. The fear of losing his men is replaced by the fear of dying, and no amount of telling himself it's an honor to die for them changes that.

Time slows, and for a moment Brock expects SHIELD's rescue team to barge in and save the day. But it doesn't happen. Instead, Jack will pass him the revolver, and he will blow his own brain out, and then his team will play another round, and another, until they're all dead.

*

"So here I am, looking death in the eye," Brock says, "Actually fucking seeing that motherfucker, skeletal face, black robes and everything, right? And then, this motherfucker—" He punches Jack in the shoulder. "This motherfucker decides to be a fucking hero and pulls the trigger _again._ "

The corner of Jack's mouth rises. "You're welcome."

Clint leans in, the eerie glow of the Jell-O shots finally illuminating his face. His eyes are wide, and he has fingers up in his open mouth, likely biting on his nails the whole time.

"And you _survived_ that?"

"Oh, we were all shocked," Brock says. "Him, especially."

*

All of them, even Barnes, stare at Jack, whose head shouldn't be whole anymore. Jack blinks and finally drops his hand to look over the revolver that should have fired, but didn't.

Then it dawns on them.

The Slavs burst into laughter. Brock's nails dig further into the wounds in his palms. Jack's face and neck flush, either with anger or embarrassment, likely both. Murphy crosses himself. Barnes glares daggers at the Slavs in his peripheral. Ward and Kaminsky just look shocked.

The leader exclaims something in his language, still roaring with laughter, then finally turns to them and raises his open palm, where a single bullet rests. 

"Good, huh?!" He yanks the gun from Jack's loose hold and this time, slowly and visibly loads it. "You should see your faces! Hilarious." He spins the cylinder and enters their little circle to stand in front of Brock. He leans down a little to look him in the eyes, and Brock glares back. "You, small one. You must be commander. They're so ready to die for you." He extends his hand. "Commander goes first."

For a moment, Brock entertains the idea of taking the revolver, jumping to his feet, and bashing the leader across his face. But that would mean immediate death for them all, and they can still buy time. 

The revolver feels heavy in his hand when he raises it to his temple. He glares up at the leader who's grinning back at him with glee.

They all jolt at the sound of the shots outside. The warehouse door opens, and though Brock's sitting with his back to it, he knows: it's the rescue team.

Chaos ensues. The leader, still standing in their circle, shouts orders at his men who get bullets raining on them. He reaches for the firearm at his hip, and taking advantage of his distraction, Brock aims at the side of his head.

*

"I was determined to pull the trigger all six times if that's what it took," Brock says. "Thing is, I didn't have to; all it took was one. The very shot that was supposed to blow my head off made a really nice hole in his. If the rescue team came a couple seconds later, I wouldn't be here telling this story right now."

"Holy shit," Clint whispers. 

Brock feels Jack shift even closer on the loveseat, and he looks up at him with a smile just in time to witness him unclench his jaw. "The team killed them all but one, I think, the one they took for interrogation. They found us some pants, even gathered our gear and herded us all to the quinjet. Somehow, all of us got out of it, maybe a little traumatized, but alive and mostly unharmed. Ask Murphy and he'll tell you God saved us." He casts a look around the table. Natasha's looking solemnly back at him, Steve's wearing his patented sad puppy face, only now he looks more like he's sad for Brock's puppy, and Clint's staring at him wide-eyed like it was the scariest story he's ever heard. "Was that the scariest day of my life? Absolutely. Do I wish it never happened? No, I don't. Because, I imagine, if it didn't—" He looks back at Jack, who has calmed down by now and meets his gaze with his soothing forest green eyes. "This absolute fucking idiot would have never found the courage to ask if he could kiss me."

"Wait." Clint blinks in surprise. "It's a love story?!"

Jack drops his gaze with a coy smile. "Always has been."

**Author's Note:**

> Isaac Murphy is an original character and he belongs to Lauralot.
> 
> Happy Halloween! Stay safe this year everyone 🖤


End file.
